


A Strange Book

by assholeachilleus



Series: Deaf!jon au [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Deaf!Jon, I think we all know how this goes, M/M, basically Jon finds a strange book in his library, it's just normal tma kinda descriptions of eldritch horror, minor character death (not any of the canon characters), the descriptions of violence aren't graphic but I tagged just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assholeachilleus/pseuds/assholeachilleus
Summary: Jon goes to work and finds a strange book in his library. This is part of my deaf!Jon au but can be read alone.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Deaf!jon au [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072478
Comments: 14
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, so remember when I said I was going to write actual plot? Well this is it. This was a really fun change of pace from what I've been writing, and I loved delving back into the horror aspect. As always, constructive criticism is welcome, and kudos and comments are very much appreciated! Hope you enjoy!

Jon loved working in the library. Whereas the library he’d visited weekly with his grandmother growing up had been practically a historical landmark, with its beautiful high Georgian windows and smooth creamy brick, the one he worked at was startlingly modern. It’s peculiar architecture meant it was all sharp angles and deadly edges, odd shapes that snaked and curled around each other, making it impossible to decipher where one piece started and the other began. It was draped with fine sheets of glass that threw out vibrant spectrums of light, washing the tall shelves below in beautiful crimsons and emeralds, that danced across the smooth tiled floor as the day slowly crept forward. The bizarre angles were adorned with long metal poles that captured the glinting sun, throwing it into tumbling, burning shafts that assaulted the eyes. Whether you thought it was nauseatingly hideous or uniquely stunning, it achieved its aim of catching the interest of every passer by.

Jon entered through the high glass doors, feeling the first struggling rays of the morning sun gently pushing against his back, and smiled at the woman at the front desk.

He’d been working with Olivia for a little over five years now, yet he still couldn’t pinpoint whether they were actually friends. Despite being well past middle aged, Olivia’s short spiky hair was a different colour every week, her dress sense consisted of a clashing mix of wild patterns and contrasting textures, and she referred to literally everything as ‘chic’.

“Morning!” Olivia greeted, her glasses chain rattling irritatingly against the dozens of beaded necklaces looped over her chest, as though vying for attention, struggling to stand out against every other item of clothing she was wearing. Jon feared it was a losing battle.

“Morning, Olivia.” Jon nodded in her direction, but didn’t slow down. Heading straight to the back room to deposit his coat and bag.

A number of other people worked at the library, but they tended to be students from the local universities, who came and went faster than Jon could possibly learn their names. They’d start the job with idealistic expectations of thrilling duties and ample time to relax with their favourite books, quickly realise that working in a library was quite a bit duller than people thought, and it definitely left little time for leisure reading, and quit soon after with the excuse of university workload.

Jon didn’t mind too much, though. He wasn’t exactly a people person to begin with, and naïve eighteen year olds with bustling ideas of changing the world and making a difference weren’t his first choice for friends.

“Oh, Hi Jon.” He looked up to see one of said students, his torn jeans and numerous piercing bringing warm nostalgia of his own university days.

“Hi,” Jon couldn’t remember his name and hoped he couldn’t tell. “Are those to be filed?” Jon pointed at the tumble of books messily strewn on the trolley, a clashing juxtaposition of colour, size, and genre.

  
“Yeah, and I, er, I have to go soon.” The student checked his phone, beaded bracelets curled around his wrist rattling as he did so.

Jon nodded. “No problem, I can do it.” With a muttered thanks and the thumping of heavy boots, the student had turned the corner and disappeared from view. A comfortable silence blanketed the library, only interrupted by the occasional flapping of pages or clacking of computer keys.

Jon fell into a steady rhythm, routinely filing the books back into their proper place as he had done so many times before. The sun started to drag itself across the sky as he worked, glinting dangerously off the metal beams, and throwing down shafts of rainbow light that gave the floor an eerie glow.

People came and went as he worked, speaking in hushed tones and frantic whispers, sitting huddled around battered textbooks with cups of coffee and tinny music that he could just make out over the patter of steps and rustling of pages.

Jon was getting to the bottom of his pile by the time the sun had crawled to its highest point, and he briefly basked in the warm hands that caressed his back and face as he worked.

He had just come upon the last book when he frowned. It was one he didn’t recognise. Now, for anyone else this might have been commonplace, but Jon had been working here a long time. He took care in knowing all the books that they kept; the smooth leather ones with glittering gold writing that should never be signed out, the dated, browning textbooks that had cramped notes written in the margins and pages that had to be physically peeled apart, even the obnoxiously colourful children’s book, with their worn covers showing the cardboard beneath, and the huge clear letters that climbed across the bottom of the page. But he didn’t recognise this.

There was nothing special about the book as such. It looked like any other novel; the same size, the same yellowing pages bursting from a bent spine, the same worn, peeling cover. Except. This one had no title. It’s cover was leather, impossibly soft as he felt it ripple under his fingers, thrumming as though alive, as though blood ran through its pages. It was a deep emerald, the same kind that the glass of the library reflected down in its beautiful spectrum of light. But there was no title. Jon flipped it over, eyes scanning the back where the blurb should be, giving an indication of what it was about. But that too was empty.

Jon felt panic settle cold and hard in his stomach, like he’d swallowed concrete and it was now solidifying, threatening to suffocate him inch by agonising inch. He couldn’t identify why he was feeling like this, but the book felt wrong.

With trembling fingers like leaves in an autumn wind, he opened the book.

Jon inhaled, his chest clenching painfully as a cold hand reached inside him and started to squeeze.

On the inside of the book there was the label for the library. It was stamped with a date a few weeks back, and he could even make out Olivia’s scrawled signature, black insect legs skittering across the page.

But, Jon could see another page peeking through, like a naughty child caught eavesdropping on their parents when they should’ve been in bed.

He glanced up. The library remained unchanged, but he shivered despite himself. Feeling only a small sliver of guilt that crawled slowly down his throat, Jon lifted the page with the library stamp and peeled it back. It came away surprisingly easy, only stuck in a few specific places, as though whatever was underneath had wanted to be discovered, was daring him to take a look. I bet you won’t, it taunted with a mocking voice.

Underneath there was a yellowing page, curled in on itself in the top corner, spotted with dark marks that looked like blots of ink, but were the entirely wrong colour.

And there in the middle of it was a smooth brass plaque, elevated ever so slightly and glinting in the bright light that flooded in from above.

It was a nameplate, Jon realised a second later. His heart was hammering against his ribs, screaming to be released, threatening to break free any second.

Jon had to squint to make out the text, he really needed new glasses.

It said “The library of Jurgen Leitner”. The metal felt cold under his fingers, the lettering had been engraved into it, and Jon felt along the rigid lines as though he could read them, to discover what the book was about.

Swallowing against his dry throat, Jon flipped the first few pages, and began to read.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second part of a strange book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the previous cliff hanger, I wanted to upload the second part sooner but editing proved a bit of a challenge. I just wanted to thank literally everyone who reads these, who leaves kudos, and who comments. It means so so much to me and it makes me so ridiculously happy that people are enjoying this series. After this, they'll probably be some fluffy, less plot driven fics. Hope you enjoy!

This book was entirely unique in that it wanted to be read. It needed to be known. It reached out with greedy hands and gripped Jon with hard fingers that only held cruel intent. They curled insidiously around him, pulling him towards its gaping jaws, delighting in using him to feed its ever-growing and insatiable hunger. Jon couldn’t tell whether the words were on the page, or in his head, or in his heart. He knew them. Thought that maybe he’d always known them. They slithered into him, writhing numbly through his veins, reaching out with icy fingers and scraping against every nerve in his body, a biting fire that consumed him as it burned and incinerated and scalded away who he was. 

Jon didn’t know where he was. Everything was dark, but not dark in the sense of an absence of light. Dark in terms of nothingness. The darkness reached out, pulling him into a loving embrace, winding those deceitful arms tighter and tighter, squeezing out every last drop of warmth and goodness and light he possessed. I’ll take care of you, it whispered, all you have to do is let go. Jon tried to struggle, but his arms felt like lead, heavy and useless where they lay against his sides. He desperately tried to open his mouth to scream, and realised his mistake far too late. Dark tendrils pushed inside, dragging itself down Jon’s throat and into his chest, circling around his barely-beating heart, and claiming it as its own. 

Everything felt numb, his fingers twitched with something akin to pins and needles, but sharper somehow, piercing into every part of him, and drawing blood that trickled thick and black like treacle. He was being undone, Jon knew that much. This darkness was slowly taking him over. He was a footprint ghosted into the sand at the beach, and the black tide was washing in. The darkness didn’t rush, it edged inch by inch, mockingly slowly, a victory laugh tipped on its gaping and bloodthirsty mouth. And why would it? They both knew there was no escape. Jon would be undone. This creature, this thing, would wash his footprint away, destroying any evidence that he’d even existed at all, leaving him with hollow nothingness for comfort. It thrusted its icy fingers into his mind, scraping and chipping away at his memories, ripping at the parts that made him himself. He could feel every part of himself screaming, a wild, primal scream that never passed his lips (did he still have lips?), and died quietly like a flame being extinguished. 

He wasn’t even sure what his name was anymore (did he have one?). All he could feel were icy waves lapping against him, insistent and playful as a child vying for attention, asking him to let it in. He couldn’t though (why couldn’t he?). He didn’t want to resist the waves any longer, surely they would feel cool and refreshing? It might sting at first, sending goose bumps skittering like millions of tiny insects across his skin, but then he would acclimatise. Get used to it. He’d grown up by the sea. Watched the tide lazily rise and fall, reaching out with greedy hands to claim anyone who dared challenge it. (Where had that been? Was he at the beach now?) His head was full of hazy fog, grey roots that knew him, maybe they were a part of him. It became harder to think. The tide was sweeping in, it's dark water possessive and claiming, and he had gotten too close. It snaked around his ankles and dragged him into its depths, and a tiny part of him felt relief. 

Jon gasped, violent coughs rattling against his ribs, arms slowly thawing as they tingled and fizzed with life. 

“Jon? Jon?! Can you hear me?” He forced his eyes open, they were blurry and stung, like when you’d spent too long swimming in a chlorine pool. He blinked a few times, though his eyelids scraped across his eyes like sandpaper, each blink bringing a new wave of agonising pain. 

Eventually, he cleared them enough to see a figure emerge out of the fog. A blur of wild colours, looking like a painting that had been left out in the rain, crying dark reds and vibrant blues. He coughed, throat prickling with resistance. Jon inhaled greedily, which sent him into another coughing fit. 

“Jon? It’s Olivia, can you hear me?” Jon squinted, faintly hearing rattling beads and the swishing of a padded coat. His vision had cleared a bit more now, but dark spots still danced macabrely in his vision, taunting him, mocking him. 

“Olivia?” Jon’s voice was strangled, the way it got sometimes when he used it too much. He could taste salt in his mouth, his throat impossibly dry, words sticking to the sides as he tried to speak. 

“Oh, thank christ.” Olivia said, her voice wobbly. “You’ve been gone for hours, Jon! We were so worried. The library closed ages ago. What happened?!” Jon tried to process this, but that grey fog still lingered in the corners of his mind. He groaned, cringing as he licked his lips and tasted the tang of salt. 

He felt the smooth tile underneath him, and shifted his aching legs. He was on the floor of the library. He frowned, glancing up at the full moon silvery and bright in the inky sky, shafts of ashy light falling down like sheets through the glass roof. 

“Oh, what’s this doing here?” Jon watched, icy roots of terror snaking around his heart as Olivia’s colourful blur reached down and picked something up. It was emerald. He tried to reach out, but his arms were heavy and stubbornly refused. He tried to shout out but his mouth was so dry, this throat clenching shut as though being squeezed. 

A blood curdling scream sent goose bumps violently crawling over his skin. Jon watched helplessly as the smooth tile of the floor began to shift, it rippled like disturbed water, shimmering and slinking in a way that shouldn’t be possible. And where the tile rippled, Jon saw nothing but aching darkness. A cavernous hole. It reached out with heinous hands, fingers curling cruelly around Olivia, it's dark tendrils splashed back against her colourful clothes. And in one inhumanly fast move it snatched her. Olivia disappeared into the dark nothingness, and so did the book. 

Jon sat on the tile that was now just tile again until the moon hung high in the sky, until the silvery wash of light dimmed, until the vast blackness of the sky turned inky blue. He sat until his legs went numb, until he could barely feel his fingers, until the tears dried hard and stiff on his cheeks. 

The sound of the library doors bursting open startled him. Jon was sure he hadn’t been asleep, but suddenly he was blinking slowly as bright, glittering sunlight embraced him, whispering its comforts, and injecting warmth back into his veins. 

A group of people emerged, two in what looked like a police uniform, radios buzzing with muffled voices. The three people a step behind swam into view; one was a tall woman with purple glasses clinging to her nose, the other two were male, one wearing what looked like a hawaiin shirt. Jon idly wondered if he was dreaming. 

But he recognised the other man. He would know him by touch alone, by the knitted jumper, and beautifully delicate curls. 

“Martin.” Jon coughed harshly, his voice barely audible over the rushing footsteps and radio chatter. But it was enough. 

Suddenly he was being swept up in warm arms, he buried his freezing nose in Martin’s shoulder, in the junction he had carved as his home. That familiar scent of cinnamon drowned out the metallic salt that assaulted his nose. The loving embrace pushed the icy tendrils back, forcing them to recede, releasing Jon from their grasp. 

Martin pulled back and cupped Jon’s face. “What happened? You’re freezing! You, you went missing. You’ve been gone all night Jon, I was so worried.” The two police officers were standing a little way back, although their faces were pinched in annoyance and it was clear they wanted to be the ones questioning Jon. 

Jon took a deep breath, filling his lungs properly for the first time in what felt like years. 

“There was a book.” He said, his voice sounding distant, an echo across the beach. Martin’s eyes were wide with worry. Jon felt his eyes prickle with tears. “The worst book.” 

Later on, Martin would hold Jon on their shared couch, his adamant refusal to let go mirrored by Jon, who gripped Martin’s arm with tight insistence. Martin would explain all about Jurgen Leitner, and Jon would keep his nose pressed firmly into Martin’s shoulder, pushing away memories of salty waves and grasping darkness and icy tendrils that snaked through his veins.


End file.
